


outside the line

by sanskrits



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, GSAs, Gay Character, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Oblivious Simon Snow, Self-Hatred, Sexuality Crisis, Trans Character, am i gay quiz, angst ball baz, dysphoria is v slight and hopefully not too triggering, graphic descriptions of google searching, nb!baz, nonbaznary, self-hate is unrelated to gender, sorry these tags are a MESS, they get gay spring formal, watfordnet event: pride, written for pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanskrits/pseuds/sanskrits
Summary: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is born a boy. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is not a boy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello everyone! I'm back on my bullshit with another 10k+ fic. this one features nonbinary!Baz and is heavily inspired by the love of my life and hypebaz, Noor. thank you to Noor and Em for being my betas and nb gurus: I love you <3\. 
> 
> with this all being said, I am cis and tried my best to make Baz's experience being nonbinary accurate. however, every nb person's experience is going to be different and I apologize if I've written something that may be offensive to you. that's not my intention at all! please leave me some feedback in the comments or on Tumblr [@inejghafai](https://inejghafai.tumblr.com) so I know how you feel about this fic - it's my first time writing for something gender-related and I highly appreciate any comments you might have. 
> 
> this was written for [WatfordNet's](https://watfordnet.tumblr.com) Pride event on Tumblr.
> 
>  
> 
> **content warnings: slight dysphoria, (accidental) misgendering, self-hate (unrelated to gender). if any of these things trigger you, or you would rather not read about these, this fic is probably not for you.**

i. 

It’s the little things I notice, at first. My father, talking about me with Uncle Raj, Dev’s dad, saying, “He’s doing okay.” 

I don’t know why the word feels so wrong, the phrase  _ He’s  _ doing okay. I don’t know why it feels off. I am a he. I’m a boy. It shouldn’t be wrong.

Maybe it’s the attack. The bite. I don’t remember, exactly, what happened. But I know that I was bit by a vampire and that’s how Mother died and why Father’s all sad now. Maybe it made something wrong with me. Maybe it’s a side effect.

I figure that it’s that and I don’t tell Father because he’s sad enough about things, six months after it happened, and there’s already enough wrong with me. Father goes on telling Uncle Raj about me and says “Dev should play with him,” and I’d like to meet Dev but the words feel so, so wrong.

I just nod. Smile. Ask where Dev is. I ignore the feeling in my gut.

ii.

I’m nine when Father marries Daphne. They have been together for two years now and engaged for three months, and Father isn’t as sad anymore. But he doesn’t really talk to me either. I don’t know how to feel about it, because it means he’s not calling me  _ he  _ anymore, but I miss him. Just a little bit.

I don’t tell him this because I’m a Pitch and I’m old enough to know what it means now. 

At the wedding, Father gives me a tuxedo to wear. It’s velvety, black, and comes with a navy blue tie for a pop of color. I wear it and I don’t know why, but it feels wrong. It feels, I reflect, just like the word  _ he.  _ Something that shouldn’t be out of place on me, but is. 

I don’t think vampirism extends to suits. Does it? I stare at myself a little harder in the mirror and things don’t feel right. My hair is too short and my shoulders are too wide and this tux fits them too well, makes me look like a proper man. I hate it. I hate it so much. This is uncomfortable and this is stifling and it feels like I can’t breathe. 

I loosen the tie. I hate this tie, too, so blue and masculine. My father had ruffled my hair when he came in and said, “This tie would look so good on you, Basil. You’ll look like such a man.” 

It’s that part I hate about this, I realize. The looking like a man. It shouldn’t bother me. I  _ am  _ a man. At least, I will be when I grow up. I’m a guy.

So why does it feel so wrong? It’s not like I’m a girl, or can imagine myself being one. Boy Baz is the Baz I like. Most of the time.

So why does it feel like I don’t fit? Why is this tuxedo so tight? Why can’t I breathe?

I take off the tie and throw it on the bed. Damn what Father thinks about looking like a man; I won’t be a man if I suffocate to death.

It doesn’t help. I put the tie back on and force a smile onto my face for the wedding and I go out and pretend it feels right.

iii.

By ten years old, I have learned to live with it. It still feels wrong when people refer to me as  _ he,  _ but I’ve stopped thinking about it. Or, at the very least, I’ve grown used to it. The word feels no less unusual in reference to me.

Mordelia is born that June, and Father and Daphne present me with a new word that feels so utterly wrong to me:  _ brother.  _

Why does the word make me feel so terrible? When Father and Daphne first tell me in the hospital, “Look, Basil, it’s Mordelia. You’re her brother,” I nod, smile at them, and sit down in a bathroom stall to focus on my breathing. It gets like this sometimes, when the force of  _ he  _ and  _ be a guy  _ and  _ male  _ is overwhelming, so I have to take deep breaths and hold them for three seconds until I let them out, and then I can go back to feeling somewhat okay again.

When I leave the bathroom the sign  _ Men’s  _ on the door makes me feel like I walked out of a prison.

iv.

At eleven years old I have to leave home for Watford. I haven’t been to Watford since I was five years old and got bitten by a vampire.

I still harbor a grudge against that vampire. I don’t know what they did to me, but now I feel completely lost in my own body, and it must have been their doing. 

I wonder, briefly, if I even  _ am  _ a boy sometimes, but then I use the restroom and am reminded that I am in fact a guy because girls do not have my kind of body. Still, it doesn’t stop the paranoia that somehow the Crucible will pair me with a girl because it knows I’m not good at being a boy, or that it won’t pair with anyone at all because it knows I’m not good at being human either. 

I want to hope that the Crucible will pair me with Dev because none of the other boys sound too appealing to room with, and Dev’s family. Family’s supposed to stick together, isn’t it? 

Instead Dev gets paired with some guy named Niall and my roommate is the Chosen One.

Simon Snow, I think bitterly, must feel like a guy. Him with his moles all over his body — I can spot them on his arm where his sleeve ends, almost in a pattern — and his bronze hair and blue-eyed glory, he must feel good about being a boy. I bet he doesn’t feel wrong when people call him  _ he.  _ I bet he can breathe when he has to wear a suit. (Not that I think he’s ever worn a suit before. The boy’s an orphan, and his shirt is so ratty I doubt it’s ever seen better days. Besides, no respectable suit-wearer would bounce a red ball with him wherever he went: it’s the principle of the matter.)

I resent this boy, so golden-faced and alive and  _ boyish.  _ And he’s the Mage’s Heir to boot, so I expect that I have to hate him anyway. 

It’s not hard. He makes it so easy.

v.

When we return to Watford for second year, Snow is already on the bed crying. I taunt him, of course, because it’s common sense: if he’s going to sit there and blubber like a baby, it’s my magic-given right to give him shit about it.

I feel good about it until the next day, when I’m walking to my table with Dev and Niall for breakfast, and Snow is talking about me to Penelope Bunce.

“Baz is so mean, Pen,” he’s saying. “He’s such a… well, he’s a wanker!”

This is the first time Snow has called me  _ he.  _ Well, I realize, it probably isn’t, but it’s the first time I’ve been around to hear him say it. I don’t even mind that he called me a wanker. He probably learned the word in one of his care homes.

But he called me  _ he.  _ I thought I was used to it, thought I could work with being called he, that I’d just have to adjust to this side effect of vampirism. When Snow says it, though, it feels like a punch to the gut (I’d know about that: by this point, Snow and I have been in plenty of fistfights), like he balled up his fist and deliberately threw it right where it would knock my breath out.

I get to my table with Dev and Niall.

“I’ve got to use the restroom, boys,” I tell them. I don’t wait for them to respond, knowing that they’re probably confused, and walk to Mummers House as fast as I can.

The moment I’m there, I break into a run for the bathroom, lock myself in there, and try to breathe. The running probably did not help with that.

I lean against the door and sink down, cradling my head in my hands, trying to get a hold of myself. A sob tears out of my throat, though, and I can feel hot tears stinging my eyes. I feel like that word just lit me on fire.  _ He. He. _

_ You are a boy,  _ Simon Snow says to me in my mind.  _ You are a boy, Baz Pitch, and there’s nothing you can do about it. _

Aleister Crowley, why do I have to feel this way? What’s wrong with me?

vi.

I’m halfway through my third year when I realize that I have to tell myself I’m a boy.

What does that mean? I have no idea, really, but reminding myself that I’m a boy means that I must think I’m not. I don’t know  _ why  _ I think I’m not a boy, either. But that’s the only explanation for everything, the way it burns when Snow says “He’s a git,” the way I can’t breathe when I have to wear a suit. 

Logically, I know it’s not true. Does vampirism make guys… not-guys?

I’m starting to doubt it. I don’t even have fangs yet. Whatever… this is, it’s not a vampire problem. It’s just me. It’s not something I can’t help, it’s not the result of a bloody vampire bite.

There’s something going on with me. My mind. And it’s not like I’m feminine, or feel like a girl, but I just can’t feel like a guy. I don’t. I don’t know what that means.

It’s around this time when Snow really begins to get on my nerves. I almost  _ always  _ hear him telling either Bunce or Agatha Wellbelove (who everyone knows he has a thing for): “Crowley,  _ he’s  _ really evil,” or “Baz is a right git,  _ he  _ is,” and  _ he, he, he.  _ Every time I hear him talking about me, I want to tell him,  _ Please stop, please stop calling me that, please,  _ but I am a Pitch, and I  _ am  _ a boy, and begging is beneath me.

So I set a chimera on him instead, to make him feel the way I do, to make him get scared and beg for mercy. Instead he tries to fight it and his magic starts smoking and he goes off on it. Like a nuclear bloody weapon. 

Simon Snow is a bomb, I know that now. I didn't mean to set him off. But I did and I don’t hate things any less.

vii.

That summer, Daphne has twins. They are fraternal, and one is a boy and another is a girl. I wonder if the boy will grow up to feel like he isn’t one. I wonder how Father would feel about that, and then I stop wondering because I don’t know what Father will feel about that and I don’t want to.

He would say something’s wrong with me. He would say,  _ Basilton, I don’t understand this. _ I would say back, _ Father, it’s not like I understand this either. But I’m not a boy. _

That’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to think it.  _ I am not a boy. _

Then my mind kicks back in and asks me,  _ Then what are you?  _ and I don’t have an answer to that, not really, so I tell myself again that I am a boy.

The lie feels paper-thin, stretching over a truth I don’t want to look at.

viii.

It is fourth year when I finally work up the courage to think about it again.  _ I am not a boy. _

_ I am not a boy, _ I think, and for some reason it feels right. That admission feels like a truth. 

_ If you are not a boy,  _ my mind asks me,  _ then what are you? _

And the only other option is a girl. That is how it works. You are a boy or you are a girl.

But I don’t feel like a girl either. If Snow were to say, “Baz is evil, I know  _ she  _ is,” it would feel wrong. One of the only things that I like about me is my name; I wouldn’t want to change it, and it doesn’t work with  _ she.  _ Even without my name, I am not a  _ she.  _

I am not a  _ he  _ and I am not a  _ she _ . Then what does that make me? There aren’t any other options. 

When Snow is out in the only class he and I don’t share, it takes me fifteen minutes to get the nerve to switch from the tab that’s open on my essay for PoliSci onto a new one, open to Google.

I type in  _ i’m not a guy but i’m not a girl,  _ and nothing good really comes up — Wikipedia’s first suggestion is the article  _ I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman  _ by Britney Spears. I type in again,  _ i’m not a he but i’m not a she,  _ and the first thing that turns up is a question box.

_ How do you refer to a gender-neutral person?  _ is the first query. Followed by  _ What do you call a non-gendered person?, Is  _ they  _ a gender-neutral pronoun?,  _ and  _ What does  _ they  _ mean in gender? _

I click the down arrow for the first query with some reluctance. It feels forbidden, what I’m doing, like this knowledge isn’t really meant for me. But my curiosity wins out, and I let Google direct me to an article called  _ All About Gender-Neutral Pronouns.  _ The site is minimalist and looks somewhat calming to the eye, relieving me somewhat.

I read a little bit about gender-neutral pronouns:  _ they  _ is common, I think, especially among the other searches in Google which referred to it. The next passage is what strikes me:

_ “The pronouns “he' and “she” are most commonly used to refer to people, but they are two binary sides of a spectrum of genders. Simply assuming that one goes by “he” or “she” pronouns is exclusive of transgender, non-binary, and genderqueer individuals who may not be comfortable with these pronouns.” _

What is really the problem, I realize, is this. I am not a  _ he.  _ I hate being called a  _ he.  _ Apparently transgender, nonbinary, and genderqueer individuals tend not to use  _ he  _ or  _ she  _ pronouns. 

Does that mean I’m transgender?

I search  _ transgender  _ into Google. The Google-assigned definition is “denoting or relating to a person whose sense of personal identity and gender does not correspond with their birth sex.”

That sounds a lot like me, doesn’t it? I am not a boy. And I was born as a boy. So am I trans? 

I look through Wikipedia. Wikipedia is not the most reliable source, I’m well aware, but it also offers the most information and I’ll fact-check anything that catches my eye.

“Transgender _ — often shortened as  _ trans  _ — is also an umbrella term: in addition to including people whose gender identity is the opposite of their assigned sex (trans men and trans women), it may include people who are not exclusively masculine or feminine (people who are genderqueer or non-binary, including bigender, pangender, genderfluid, or agender).” _

Well, my gender identity is definitely not the opposite of my assigned sex. I’m not a guy, but I’m not a girl either. That is my predicament here, after all.

So I suppose I fall somewhere into the umbrella of people who are not exclusively masculine or feminine. I didn’t know that was a thing. I thought it was just  _ you are a boy  _ or  _ you are a girl  _ and trans people only wanted to transition to the opposite sex. 

And I note, again, the use of  _ genderqueer  _ and  _ non-binary. _ I don’t know what either of those words refer to, and luckily they’re grouped into the same link, so I click on the link that now says  _ Non-binary gender  _ and shows two pride flags on the side that immediately catch my eye.

So non-binary people are the ones that aren’t masculine or feminine. Well, I’d assumed so, but then Wikipedia tells me, “ _ Non-binary people may identify as having two or more genders (being bigender, trigender, or pangender) or having no gender (being agender, nongendered, genderless, genderfree or neutrois). _ ”

I have no idea what any of those terms mean, but I assume that bigender, trigender, and pangender are all referring to people with multiple genders. All I really know about myself is that I am not a boy. I definitely don’t identify with more than one gender.

So I think having  _ no gender  _ is my best option. The words kind of terrify me.  _ No gender. _ I didn’t know you could  _ not have a gender.  _ I thought gender was a fundamental… part of being. 

I’m beginning to realize I thought a lot of things about gender.

I click on the link for agender, since it’s the first one on the list and Wikipedia’s links are further down. 

Agender people, it says, don’t identify with any gender or gender identity. They typically identify with singular  _ they  _ pronouns. 

They.

“Baz is evil. I know  _ they  _ are,” I imagine Snow telling Bunce. The pronoun doesn’t make me want to set myself on fire. I’m not sure if it feels right. But it’s a step.

Being… agender? transgender? non-binary? is not a radical thing. People aren’t all male or female. People can be outside the binary.

I think that’s me. I don’t know for sure what label I want to use, but I think I’m non-binary.

_ I am not a boy. I am non-binary,  _ I tell my head. It doesn’t say anything back.

I’m thinking about the pronoun  _ they  _ when Snow gets back from class, looking at me strangely.

“Something the matter, Baz?” he asks. I’m not sure why he cares, really, or if it showed that I’m questioning my gender identity. I doubt I’m that obvious, though, and figure that I probably just forgot to look like I want to murder him when he walked in.

“Nothing,” I say, closing the lid of my laptop and trying not to smile. “Nothing at all.”

ix.

By the time summer rolls around, I’ve smoothed things out for myself, I think.

My pronouns are they/them. That, I know for sure. Using other gender-neutral pronouns doesn’t feel right to me, and the pronoun  _ he  _ makes me unable to breathe, and I am definitely not a  _ she,  _ so  _ they  _ it is.

I have to tell my family, I realize, because now that I know what I want to be called, and that there isn’t anything wrong with being called that, I have to… actually let someone know what I want to be called. So they’ll stop calling me a boy.

Because I’m not. I’m non-binary. I haven’t decided on a specific label, and I’m not sure that I want to, but I’m non-binary.

So in June — for Pride month — I steel myself and knock on Father’s office door. My voice is soft and weak when I ask, “Can I come in?”

My father says yes and I walk in, fidgeting with my hands to give myself something to do.

I don’t really know how to say this. At this point, my father is looking at me with concern. “Is everything alright, Basilton?” he asks me.

“I… Father,” I start, “I’m not a boy.”

He blinks at me, utterly nonplussed. “Basil… are you transgender?” he asks, carefully, head tilted at me.

“No… yes… no? Not in the way you think,” I say. “Well, I… I’m non-binary. Which means I’m not a boy, but I’m not a girl, either, and I just… I’d like to be referred to with  _ they/them _ pronouns. Not  _ he _ . I’m — I’m not a  _ he,  _ Father,” I tell him, and my voice comes out stronger and more confident than I expected it to.

“Basilton, I don’t understand this,” my father says, and I’m reminded of last summer when I imagined what he would say. 

“It’s… it’s a lot of semantics, Father, but I’d just like to  _ not  _ be called  _ he. They  _ works fine. That’s really all.”

My father’s brows are furrowed and I’m worried that he’s going to say something terrible to me, that he’ll say something’s wrong with me, that he’ll say,  _ Is this what your mother would have wanted for you? _

Instead he tells me, “I don’t understand this, Basil, but… you’re my son.” I cringe involuntarily and my father notices. He winces too. “I mean my child. Sorry.”

At least he’s making an effort. That’s good. It’s something I can work with.

“If you don’t want to be called  _ he,  _ then… that’s fine,” my father continues. “I’m not going to pretend to understand all this about gender, but if you would like me to call you  _ they,  _ then I will. I want you to be happy, Basil.” When he says this, he looks at me so intensely that I don’t doubt that he means it. I smile. “So if this makes you happy, then okay. I’ll respect it.”

“It does,” I say. “Make me happy. Thank you, Father.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” he replies. “I’m proud of you, Basilton.”

I walk out of there unable to contain my grin.

Daphne calls me to dinner when I have my headphones in and I unplug them just as I hear Father saying, “They’re coming,” and it feels right.

It feels right.

x.

In my fifth year at Watford, I have to start feeding. My fangs had come in over the summer, but I only develop the need to drink blood a few weeks into fifth year.

Snow immediately begins to assume that I’m plotting his murder. Of course, after the chimera fiasco, I can hardly blame him for being paranoid, but the level of paranoia that requires one to follow their nemesis around wherever they go is just crossing the line.

Truthfully, I’m just drinking the blood of rats in the Catacombs. It’s not like I was going to start making virgin sacrifices to summon a demon or whatever the fuck Snow thinks I’m up to. Sometimes I visit my mother and I wonder what she would think of me, her vampire child who isn’t even on the gender binary. 

Then I figure she wouldn’t care, because Father didn’t really seem to, and he was the hard part.

I still haven’t told anyone at Watford. It’s one thing to tell my family and another thing entirely to let the entire school know that I don’t go by he/him pronouns.

My internal crisis about being masculine is somewhat calmer this year, now that I know more about my gender, but it doesn’t stop the way it stings when I hear Snow telling Bunce, “I swear  _ he’s  _ plotting something.”

Snow is always talking about me. I wish he’d shut up and focus more on his precious girlfriend, Wellbelove. They’re dating, so he should pay more attention to her. Right, that’s how it goes, isn’t it? 

The idea of Wellbelove and Snow as the school’s golden couple is deeply unsettling for reasons I can’t comprehend, to be honest, so I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind and try not to think about them. I just got out of a gender crisis. I don’t need more.

It’s hard not to think about Snow when he’s around you for your every waking moment. He’s switched tables so that he’s sitting in front of me and can look at what I’m doing, glare at me, and whisper with Bunce and Wellbelove about me. I want to wonder what it is they’re talking about but then stop myself because they don’t matter to me, not really, and I don’t want to think about the pronouns they’re using.

I want to say something to Snow. Go to him and say, “Snow, when you’re calling me evil, will you please say  _ they  _ instead of  _ he?  _ Thanks.” But I can’t get the words out, can’t even think about saying them. What would Snow think? Would he just laugh in my face and spit at me? 

Who gives the time of day to their enemy’s gender identity, anyway? I doubt Snow would. And for some reason, I’d rather he think of me as a boy out of ignorance than of spite. He hates me enough anyway.

I care about what he thinks. Fuck, that’s the truth. I care about what he thinks. I don’t want to. I don’t know why. But I care about what Simon Snow thinks, and that’s scary.

xi.

Somehow, Simon Snow, who didn’t pass Magickal History last year, who can’t even cast  **Up, up, and away** without setting something on fire, managed to figure out my secret. 

“He’s a git” becomes “He’s a monster,” “He’s a vampire,” and “He’s a killer.” Those are all true sentences. Except for the  _ he  _ part, Simon Snow has me figured out. 

He seems terrified of me. Takes to wearing a cross on his neck, constantly reminds me of the Anathema, and yet he still manages to threaten me and stick it where it hurts.

“I’ll tell everyone who will listen about you,” he tells me. “And then they’ll know, and you’ll be exposed and expelled like the monster you are.”

I wonder how he can’t see that he’s the scarier one. He and his following me — it’s even gone into the Catacombs — and his bloody girlfriend Wellbelove and his moles and freckles and hair —

I’m starting to realize I might be just a little bit attracted to him. That doesn’t really mean anything. Maybe. 

Can one be gay if they aren’t a boy?

I take to Google, my savior in times of crisis like this.

My searches go a little something like this:

_ am i gay _

_ am i gay quiz _

_ can you be gay if you’re nb _

_ is it gay to think a guy’s hair is nice _

_ please just tell me if i’m gay _

_ aohgouawrpuw-ppjgapiwgjapi- _

Yes, I actually searched up the keysmash. Sue me.

xii.

It turns out that non-binary people can be gay. And I am probably gay for Simon Snow.

This is entirely inconvenient and unwelcome information. I did not ask for Simon Snow to worm his way into my mind and my personal space and just stand there looking all cute, smiling at Wellbelove and kissing her and making my stomach curl. 

I wish he would smile at me. Unfortunately, the only thing he seems to be able to do is glare at me from across the dining room. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his boyishness, fuck him and all his talk about plotting, fuck his gender binary. 

I hate Simon Snow. I really wish I could say I hate Simon Snow without lying. I wish I hated Simon Snow.

Avoiding him, I decide, is the best strategy to get him off my back. Maybe if I prove to him I’m not actually plotting his death, he’ll lay off me and my obsession with him will disappear and I won’t like him anymore. 

So I make sure I wake up before he does, shower after he gets to breakfast, and stay in the Catacombs at night long enough for him to fall asleep. If anything, this is counterproductive.

Snow, the dumb piece of shit, takes my avoidance of him as less of a hint and more of a clue that my big plan is about to come to fruition.

How fucking obvious does he think I am? I keep up with this routine for a few weeks, just to see how long I can get away with it and how long it takes him to get a hint, but Snow just keeps following me, dogging my steps wherever I go, even going so far as to barge in on my violin practice.

Aleister fucking Crowley. 

It all comes to a head when I’m heading down to dinner and Snow decides to run after me, saying, “Baz!”

“Yes, Snow?” I drawl after him, trying not to let my annoyance show.

“You need to stay away from me,” he says in a low voice. I think he’s trying to sound threatening, except for the fact that I’ve literally  _ been doing exactly that. _

I fix him with a look that hopefully conveys how done I am with him.

“Stop that,” says Snow, face red and breathing heavy.

“Stop what?” I ask, raising a brow. Because I live to be contrary.

“Acting like you’re so fucking high and mighty. You’re a fucking monster, you know, but it doesn’t make you any better than the rest of us, Baz. You’re just a fucking boy.” My blood runs cold with the last sentence. Snow doesn’t seem to notice, going on and on and driving his fist further into my gut with every word.

“You’re just a villainous boy with an ego complex. You want to pretend that just because you’re a Pitch, you’re somehow above everyone else? You’re not. You are just. A fucking.  _ Boy. _ ”

_ No _ , I want to say.  _ Simon, I’m not a boy. _ But the words get caught in my throat. 

“Don’t call me that,” I say instead.

Snow smirks. “What? A boy? You can’t handle being compared to the rest of us, can you?” He laughs like this is somehow funny to him, like he’s not systematically dismantling me with his every word. “Well, here’s the truth, Baz,” he says, louder this time. “You’re a  _ boy.  _ You’re a boy! And you don’t fucking scare me!” 

He’s shouting now, screaming in my face, cheeks red with anger.

“You’re —”

Before I know it, I send my fist flying into his gut; Snow goes flying down the staircase, and I hear a horrible  _ bump  _ followed by a  _ thud  _ and then a groan.

I hadn’t realized I hit Snow so hard. I hadn’t even realized my fist was balled up. I just wanted to shut him up before I lost it.

I’m pretty sure I did just lose it. 

I want to hate Simon Snow so badly. I do hate him, for saying those things. I hate him for getting under my skin, I hate him for calling me a boy, I hate myself for pushing him, myself for allowing him to get under my skin, myself for loving him.

Because that is the ugly truth, isn’t it? I am in love with Simon Snow. I’m not just attracted to him. I want Simon Snow to smile at me. I want him to look at me with the adoration he reserves for Agatha Wellbelove, I want him to give me the casual affection he gives to Penelope Bunce. I want all of him, all of his constellations of moles, all of his messy locks of curls, all of his dysfunctional magic.

And I just pushed him down the stairs. Effectively ruining my chances of that.

I wish I could hate Simon Snow. I can’t, though. I just hate myself instead. 

xiii. 

Surprisingly, I don’t get expelled. Fiona calls me to ask if I pushed Snow down the stairs and I say, “Fuck yes I did.” 

Dev asks me if I really pushed the Chosen One down the stairs and I reply, “Of course.”

Snow glares at me — he has a black eye now, and a cut on his forehead — and Bunce is looking at me with venom in her eyes. Wellbelove is facing the other side and, to be honest, I don’t really care what she thinks of it all.

I don’t care what anyone thinks of it all. Things can’t really get worse. Snow called me a boy and he’s been following me around everywhere and I’ve come to the revelation that I’m hopelessly in love with him. So I am fucked on three fronts. Four, if he’s going to start following me around again.

And to be honest, I want him to pay. More than just a tumble down the stairs and a few bruises. I want him to be as thoroughly fucked as I am, I want him to hate as much as I do. I want him to feel sorry for calling me a boy. I want him gone.

(I want him. That is the problem.)

So when Fiona offers me a recorder that will send Snow away, I take it. And it doesn’t work, because I was a fool for thinking anything could harm Simon Snow. Philippa Stainton falls victim to the recorder instead, and Snow looks at me with this…  _ disappointed  _ look. Like he thought I was evil, but this was between us. Like he thought I was better than this. Like he hates me for being this way.

I hate me too, Snow. I don’t know how to stop.

xiv.

After a thoroughly depressing fifth year, a summer wherein I sexually experiment and fail miserably, and lots of thought about death, killing Snow, and Snow killing me, I feel a little more comfortable in whatever the fuck is happening in my head.

Also in my body, I think. I’ve grown my hair out long because I hate it when it’s short and makes me look masculine. Also, Father had me attend a Coven gala and I wore a maroon-colored suit, because black suits and I don’t gel well, and felt like I could maybe deal with it. And when I look in the mirror and think  _ I’m non-binary and fuck everything else,  _ I really do believe  _ fuck everything else.  _

I don’t think I’m ready to tell a lot of people at school yet. But maybe a few people. Try on they/them pronouns somewhere other than home for size. 

I tell Father I’m gay. He says, “I suspected.” I laugh, and he laughs too, and that’s the end of it.

When I return for sixth year, I tell Dev and Niall I’m non-binary on the first day back on the Great Lawn.

“What does that mean?” asks Dev, looking at me with confusion.

“It means I’m not a boy but I’m not a girl and you can call me  _ they,  _ not  _ he, _ ” I say.

“Okay.” Dev shrugs at me, and I look to Niall who’s nodding, and that’s that.

They’re good men. 

A little farther off, I notice Snow and the rest of his gang and I almost don’t want to light myself on fire.  _ Almost  _ being the operative word. I don’t think I’ll ever look at Snow and his friends and not want to set myself ablaze. Because I’m dramatic that way.

I note idly that Trixie the pixie is heading our way, and I think she’s about to pass us until she shoves a rainbow flyer into my hand that’s bedazzled with a lot of glitter. A lot. Trixie beams at me, and I try to smile back, but I think it comes out as more of a grimace because I’m so utterly confused. 

Trixie moves on to shove another flyer into Bunce’s face. Bunce hands the flyer to Snow. I hope he doesn’t track the glitter into our room.

“What is that?” asks Niall, and I take a look down at my hand to notice the letters GSA emblazoned on the top in sparkly silver glitter. 

“A Gay-Straight Alliance,” I say. “For LGBT+ people and straight allies to bond,” I continue, reading the subtitles. I have to squint a little against all the glitter.

Dev eyes me suspiciously. “Do you want to go?”

I don’t know, actually. I  _ am  _ comfortable in my identity. And, just maybe, this could be an opportunity to tell people to use  _ they/them  _ pronouns with me.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I’m not actually lying. 

I look back down at the flyer. 

_ First meeting on September 3rd,  _ it says.  _ Meet in Possiblef’s room after class. _

xv.

On September 3rd, Snow is not in our room after class. I figure this is as good an opportunity as any to sneak out, and I actually find my legs carrying themselves to Possiblef’s room.

So I suppose I’m going to the GSA meeting. I hope this isn’t where Snow has gone off to, but I assume it isn’t because Snow’s got goblins to fight or something.

I tentatively open the door. I haven’t felt this shy since fourth year when I came out to Father. There are already people here: Trixie the pixie and her girlfriend Keris, a few seventh and eighth years I don’t know, Gareth the belt-buckle boy, and Penelope Bunce.

I’m surprised Bunce didn’t drag Snow here, but then again, goblins. Still, I feel a lot more anxious about being here; her eyes are watching me like a hawk.

Trixie tells us all to sit down in a circle. I sit down next to Keris, and Bunce decides to sit down next to me because she hates me and so does the universe. I gulp. I consider lighting myself on fire in a dramatic death, making a hole and burying myself in it, or just taking the coward’s route and running the fuck out of here.

I might be anxious about this, but I still have dignity, so I don’t do any of those things. Fuck Bunce. I’m here for me. Fuck if she tells Snow. That just means she’s not a very good ally, is she?

Trixie gives each of us a look and tells us to state our name, year, pronouns, and a little about ourselves, going around the circle. State your sexual orientation, if you’re comfortable. “I’ll start,” she says. “My name is Trixie, I’m a sixth year, she/her pronouns, I’m bisexual, and I love glitter.”

We all knew she loves glitter. We all looked at the poster. Next to her is Gareth.

“I’m Gareth. Sixth year. He/him pronouns. I’m… something? I’m questioning my orientation, I guess,” he says. I can relate. All this gender and sexuality shit gets awfully confusing. “My favorite spell is  **Some like it hot.** ”

That’s interesting, at least.

A seventh-year goes next. “Maria,” they say, “seventh year, she/her pronouns. I’m a lesbian. I like to play the guitar.”

An eighth-year: “Jane, eighth year, she/her pronouns. I’m trans and straight and I’m learning to like it,” she says. I smile at that. I think Jane and I might get along.

Another seventh year introduces himself as Aaron. He’d rather not say his orientation. He’s shy. I kind of understand.

Bunce goes next. “Penelope, sixth year. She/her pronouns. I’m straight, and I’m here to learn how to be a better ally to the LGBT+ community and educate myself. I like to read.”

We’d all gathered that, funnily enough. Bunce does nothing without a book in her hand.

Unfortunately, now that Bunce has gone, it’s my turn, and I feel the pit of my stomach drop just a little bit.

“I’m Baz,” I start. “Basil. Basilton. Whatever you want to call me.” I feel pathetic. I’m stalling. I want to say what I have to say. I’m afraid I’ll choke. “Sixth year. I… um, I go by they/them pronouns.” There. I said it. I’m non-binary. I’m not a guy. I said it. I said it. And now that I’ve said it I don’t really want to stop there. “I’m pretty sure I’m gay. I don’t know if I can be gay while not being a guy, but here I am. I play the violin.”

I feel Bunce staring at me. I look at my lap. 

Keris goes last. “Keris. Sixth year, she/her. I’m a lesbian. I have a wonderful girlfriend named Trixie.” With this, she gives Trixie such a sappy smile, I’m not sure if I want to smile or vomit. On one hand, I appreciate the gay pride, and on the other, I hate the fact that I’ll never have that.

I decide not to think about it. I focus on the meeting instead. Trixie is saying that she had an idea for an activity later this year.

“So, Spring Formal week,” she says. “But make it gay.”

That sounds like a wonderful idea to me, personally. While the eighth years have the Leavers’ Ball the week before, the rest of us have Spring Formal. It’s open to all fifth years and above; I personally have never gone because I’ve been in crisis. I don’t know if we’ve ever made it gay before.

“What would that entail?” Bunce asks. Spring Formal week is full of excitement and fervor about the dance on Friday and it sounds to me like we’re working on making the week a Pride week.

“We have the regular Spring Formal week, and then the next week, we hold LGBT+ Spring Formal. And for that week, we could celebrate Pride,” I offer. 

Bunce turns to look at me again. Everyone turns to look at me, actually. I shrug.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” says Maria, and Trixie nods her assent. 

“Gay Spring Formal it is, then,” Trixie announces. “Nice job, Basil.”

I try not to smile. I’m pretty sure I fail.

The meeting adjourns, and I walk out with a little bit of reluctance. I quite liked this meeting, actually. We’re meeting next week at the same time again, but still. I felt… good about me, in here. Accepted. I don’t want to go back now with Snow calling me a boy to Bunce, who knows the truth now.

Bunce taps my shoulder on our way out.

“I didn’t know you were non-binary,” she tells me.

I hum noncommittally. “I’m not exactly out to a lot of people,” I say. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. Tell anyone else, that is.”

Bunce scoffs. “Who the fuck do you think I am? Why would you think I’d tell anyone?”

I try not to let my relief show. “Sorry. I’ve just grown comfortable with not being out, and it’s kind of… weird for me, now that things are changing,” I explain. 

“Is it bad for you?” she asks. “When you hear Simon. He’s always complaining about you, and with the wrong pronouns. Now that I’ve learned. I always thought you looked constipated when you heard him.”

“So it showed,” I note. “I have the intense urge to light something on fire when Snow calls me a boy.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I deliberately don’t look at the expression on her face. “I hope that changes for you sometime.”

If only the words would find their way out of my mouth. 


	2. Chapter 2

i.

I think Penny’s tired of me talking about Baz. At breakfast this morning I go to tell her about what I think Baz is plotting and she says, “Simon,” in this utterly blunt tone of voice. “I’m imposing a quota on you.”

“Quota,” I repeat dumbly, trying not to let on that I don’t understand.

“A Baz quota. No more talking about h — Baz — for more than ten percent of our conversation.”

“How do you know how much is ten percent?” I ask.

“I know,” Penny says sagely. She sounds like one of those hipster Indian gurus she always insists aren’t hipster. (They _are._ ) (Penny argues that it’s because white people commodify Asian culture, and I never really have an answer to that.)

I decide not to fight her on this because I don’t want a repeat of fifth year with the stalking, punching, and plotting anyway, and Baz probably won’t try anything after the whole recorder fiasco.

Probably. I don’t really know. You can’t trust the git as far as you can throw him.

“Fine,” I say. “I won’t talk about him that much anymore. But don’t tell me I should have said something when he tries to kill us all.”

Penny cringes. I don’t think I said anything particularly cringe-worthy, but maybe it’s just the mention of Baz that sets her off. Lots of the time, it’s enough to set me off too.

I take a bite of my scone and smile as I notice Agatha as she walks in and gets a plate, dropping into the seat next to me with a grace I don’t think I’ll ever be able to manage.

“Morning, Ags,” I greet. She nods.

“What are we talking about this morning?” she asks.

“Not Baz,” Penny says pointedly. Agatha smiles knowingly.

“I approve,” she replies, and I follow her line of sight to the Devil himself — Baz Pitch. He isn’t looking at us, laughing at something Dev said. He doesn’t eat during breakfast, lunch, or dinner times. It’s probably because he’s a vampire and sprouting fangs in the middle of mealtimes is a dead giveaway.

There isn’t technically any concrete proof that he’s a vampire. I should think the dead rats in the Catacombs are proof enough, but Penny’s always told me that there’s no real way to tell if it was Baz who actually killed them.

“So, Pen,” I ask to give myself something else to think about, “how was GSA yesterday?”

A thoughtful look arises on Penny’s face. “Quite nice, actually,” she says. I don’t hear the rest of her sentence.

I’m too busy noticing that Agatha is still looking at Baz.

I don’t like how long Agatha’s look lingers. I think Baz senses her looking at him, because his gaze turns our way and his eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to figure out why Agatha had been looking at him and then turned her gaze down to her food as soon as he noticed.

I think I’m trying to figure that out, too.

ii.

The _looks_ between Agatha and Baz have been driving me crazy. I think Baz has started to notice.

(I think everyone’s started to notice. My magic starts smoking when Agatha and Baz look at each other.)

Why Baz? And why not just admit it? I’ve tried to get her to give it up over the past two weeks with subtle hints.

“Ags, you seem awfully interested in Baz,” I’ll say.

She snaps at me with “No, I’m not,” instead. Which is clearly a lie. We all have eyes. Pen will roll them at the both of us.

The worst part is that Baz doesn’t have to do much of anything but look at her for a whole two seconds to pull her in. It took me three years of crushing on Agatha to realize that she liked me back. And it takes two weeks for Baz to get my girlfriend to like him.

The fucking wanker.

“Something the matter, Snow?” he taunts now. My magic is rising up to the surface; we’re in PoliSci class and Agatha, sitting on my right, is looking at the back of Baz’s head with a faraway gaze. She’s never looked at me like that.  

I think that’s what gets me. Agatha has _never_ been so interested in someone. It would be one thing if Baz was just trying to pull my girlfriend; the thing about this is that Agatha’s actually getting pulled in.

And Baz isn’t even actively, openly trying to get Agatha to like him. He just fixes her with a look and it works.

“Nothing,” I say, gritting my teeth. Fuck if I give him the satisfaction of a fight. Especially about Agatha. He hasn’t even _really_ done anything.

Who am I kidding? He only needs to exist for people to fawn all over him. My girlfriend included.

Honestly, there are so many girls in our year crushing on Baz, it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Now that I think about it, the only girl he’s ever really looked at…

Is Agatha.

Fuck, has Baz been hiding his undying love for Agatha this whole time? And now that she’s noticing him, he’s allowing himself to flirt with her? Is that why he’s never had a girlfriend?

It would be somewhat sweet if it wasn’t so fucking _evil._

iii.

Things start to make sense after that, and I hate how they come together.

“Pen,” I complain, “I seriously think Baz is trying to date Agatha.”

Pen gives me an exasperated look. “I really don’t.”

“Can’t you _see it?_ ” I insist. “Come on, with their looks and everything… there’s something going on there, Pen!”

“There really isn’t, Si,” says Penny. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“It’s not my fault I have eyes!” I point out. “It’s so obvious.”

Penny sighs. “You’ve reached your Baz quota for the day,” she decides. But fuck the Baz quota. This is serious.

“Fuck the quota,” I say. “Baz loves Agatha, I know it. I’m worried, Pen. What if Agatha falls for his evil plots?”

Penny is clearly done with this conversation, but she says, “Simon, if you and Agatha are in such a stable relationship, then even if Baz _does_ like her, you have nothing to worry about. Agatha loves you… doesn’t she?”

That’s what I’m starting to doubt. I don’t tell this to Penny, however, because it would just prove her point, if there was a point there in the first place. Instead, I huff and make my way back to Mummers House.

I’ll get my answers straight from Baz if I have to.

I throw the door to our room open furiously, hoping to attract Baz’s attention. He’s sitting at his desk calmly, unfazed, as if my mood is just a minor inconvenience to him.

Fuck that shit. I need him to know that I’m onto him.

“Baz,” I start, “I’m onto all this.”

He looks at me, then, as if his name is the only thing that’ll get him to notice me. I narrow my eyes at him.

“So,” I ask conversationally, “why is it that you’ve never had a girlfriend before?”

His face shifts from calm to confused, like he’s wondering why I’m asking this question. We never talk about relationships, or friendships, or really anything in general except for our hatred of each other.

He’s silent for a little too long, like he thinks he can get away with just not answering me. “I asked you a question,” I remind him. He jolts, almost, as if he’s afraid of saying it.

“I’ve never really liked a girl,” he says, like that’s some sort of answer.

“Bullshit. You like _someone,_ don’t you?”

With that, his eyes narrow. “And what’s it to you? Why are you suddenly so interested in my love life? Shall we have a slumber party in our pajamas and braid each others’ hair next?” he snaps.

Oh, I see. I’ve touched a line. (Idly, I notice that his hair is actually long enough to tie into something resembling a braid; I don’t think Baz has had it properly short since fourth year. I wonder why he stopped cutting it.)

I smirk. “It’s Agatha, isn’t it?”

“What?” Baz actually has the nerve to sound confused. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“Stop playing _dumb,_ ” I growl, losing my patience with him. “I know you like Agatha, have a thing for her or whatever. But I’ll remind you that she’s _my_ girlfriend, she loves _me,_ so you should stay the fuck away from her.”

Baz gives me a look like _The fuck?_

“Snow, what are you even talking about? When have I ever made it seem like I was trying to… steal your girlfriend? Is that what you think it is? Some sort of maiden-fair storybook drama where I try to whisk Wellbelove away?” He shakes his head. “You know nothing, Simon Snow. Just stop.”

“I know plenty,” I say.

“You really don’t,” Baz replies. “Just fuck off before I make you,” he continues, and I decide to drop the conversation because I’m not about to get anything out of Baz, either.

“Just — we’re not done,” I say, gesturing between us. “This isn’t over.”

“I’d say it is.”

Fuck Baz. Seriously.

iv.

It doesn’t stop then. Even through seventh year, Baz and Agatha begin to share friendly conversations and start waving at each other in the hallways, and Agatha never says a word about it to me except to shrug and say, “Why are you so bothered about it?”

Because my girlfriend talks to my nemesis more than me. Because he could be planting plots into her mind, spewing his Old Family rhetoric, trying to lure her away from me.

I’m worried about Agatha. I never manage to get anything out of Baz — I try to argue with him but he always ends up flipping it on me and it ends in me spitting “Fuck you” or just plain stuttering out a response.

Pen advises me to stop worrying about it, because the Humdrum’s getting more active this year; two new dead spots opened up, one in Wales and one over Lancashire, and Penny feels like something big is going to happen this year.

I’ve felt it too, the feeling in the air that something’s coming. I don’t know if it’s something with the Families or the Humdrum. I’m not prepared for the Big Battle between Baz and me to happen so soon. I’d thought it would happen at the end of eighth year, but now I’m not so sure.

Baz has been extra pissable this year, too, as if he senses it too and needs to get under my skin as much as possible. He starts holding more conversations with Agatha, especially in front of me, and he sends me this infuriating smirk as he turns to her, as if to say _I know you feel about this and I don’t give a shit._

Will he ever not go for the lowest blow? He’s had me go off in class twice this semester, as if I didn’t have enough problems this year without my magic exploding.

I feel stuck. I’m failing Greek and Political Science, and my grade in Magic Words isn’t too great either. I feel like a shit mage, and Baz only serves to make the feeling worse; I don’t need him constantly reminding me that I’m useless. I’d figured that out for myself.

Pen says that I should try to do something else to get my mind off things.

“Do Gay Formal with me,” she says. “It’ll be fun! Come on.”

“I’m not even gay,” I remind her. Gay Formal has been a thing since sixth year — someone in the GSA suggested it (they still won’t say who, saying that the person in question would prefer not to be outed) and since then, we’ve had an alternate Spring Formal and Pride Week the week after regular Spring Formal.

“I’m not a lesbian either,” Penny points out, “and you don’t see me being a tit about it.”

“It feels weird,” I hedge, because it does; being in such an obvious Gay Space would just make me feel like I didn’t belong, like I was taking something away from the actually gay people.

“It’s called _Gay-Straight Alliance_ for a reason,” says Penny. “But fine, if you’re not comfortable, I won’t force you. Be a shit ally.”

I really need to focus on the Humdrum anyway. I don’t know why thinking of the GSA makes me feel so uncomfortable; it’s not like I have a problem with gay people or anything, but I think being straight and around the GSA feels like an intrusion of some sort.

I don’t think they’d appreciate my shit magic anyway.

v.

Baz doesn’t come back for eighth year. I don’t know why him not being here unsettles me. But it does; just like a lot of things.

Being alone in the room just gives me more space to think about things I don’t want to think about. Like the Humdrum, and the way he snatched Penny and me as Agatha watched, the way I sprouted dragon wings to get us out of there, Penny’s face, bleeding magic…

Agatha broke up with me. I’d seen it coming, of course, because we haven’t been a couple since sixth year, really. Not since she started looking at Baz.

The room feels so weird without Baz here. The smell of cedar and bergamot that is so classically him isn’t here anymore. I’d barely noticed it was there, but now that he’s gone I kind of miss it.

Miss knowing what he’s doing, I mean. I don’t miss Baz himself, but when he was here and I could keep an eye on him, I could at least rest easy.

Now things are different, with the Humdrum being able to take me and anyone I’m touching at a moment’s notice. Penny and I haven’t really touched each other since it happened.

Baz isn’t even here. If the Humdrum took me away right now, as I sit here alone wondering what to do with myself, would anyone even notice?

I barely notice the ghost that wakes me up. I wouldn’t, if she hadn’t woken me up by saying, _“Where is Basilton?”_ in an unnecessarily loud voice.

I sit up in bed, groggy. “Huh?”

 _“Where is Basilton?”_ the ghost repeats, staring down at me, and I get a good look at her face. She’s translucent, but I can see the family resemblance in her hair and lips and sharp eyes: Baz’s mom.

I remember dimly that the Veil is open. And Baz has a Visiting and he isn’t here.

“He’s not here,” I reply, and Natasha Grimm-Pitch gives me such a dirty look that I’m not sure what I did wrong. “Um. Sorry. I don’t know if — or when — he’ll be back.” The dirty look intensifies, if anything, and I decide to shut my mouth before I do anything that offends her more.

 _“But this is the place,”_ she says, sounding angry. _“Basilton should be here.”_

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “He isn’t.”

Baz’s mom looks even more angry at this. _“What did you do to Basil?_ ”

“I didn’t do anything!” I defend.

She gives me another dirty, appraising look, like she’s trying to figure out just how much she trusts me. I wish she’d figure it out soon, because her ghostly presence is making the room colder than I can stand it to be, and seeing as I’m always overheated, it’s got to be pretty damn cold in here.

 _“It’ll be twenty years until the Veil opens again. Until I can see Basil again,_ ” says Headmistress Pitch, seeming to come to a decision. “ _Well then,_ ” she says, sighing, _“you’ll just have to pass on the message. Can you do that, Chosen One?”_ Crowley, she even says it the same condescending way that Baz does. They really are mother and child.

I nod, though, because this is his mom and I think he’d have the decency to tell me if my mother Visited. It’s the one thing we have in common: we don’t have moms. This is more than just a rivalry, the Mage, or the Old Families.

_“Tell him that my killer walks. Nicodemus knows. Tell Basilton to find Nicodemus and bring me peace.”_

“I’ll tell him,” I promise, and I mean it.

 _“My child,”_ she cries, tears welling in her eyes. _“Give Basil this.”_ She floats closer to me, pausing a bit, but then stops hesitating and presses her lips to my temple. I’ve never been kissed on the forehead before. This is cold and strangely affectionate. I’m not sure if I like it.

 _“Basilton,”_ she murmurs. _“My child.”_

I lie back down and press my face into my pillow. I don’t want to see her disappear. I can still feel goosebumps on my skin, and I’m shivering a little bit. I pull my covers tighter over myself in an attempt to get warm.

The chills don’t stop, though. I think I can hear Natasha, still, saying, _“My rosebud boy… I never would have left you…”_ Her voice is higher than normal, though, maybe in distress, or maybe she’s just fading.

I ignore her calls, shifting to face away from the window. I shut my eyes tightly and try to get back to sleep.

vi.

I go to the year’s first GSA meeting with Penny because I like to know where she is now. Also, I can really stand to be “a better ally to the LGBT+ community,” in Pen’s words.

We all sit in a circle and introduce ourselves. There’s a gap in the circle, I notice, and it doesn’t seem intentional. Are we waiting on someone?

“Why the gap?” asks Trixie, turning around from the board where she’s written _Pride ideas_ in green marker.

It’s right by Penny and Keris, I notice. They scoot, muttering small apologies. Keris says, “It really isn’t the same without Baz,” and Trixie pouts as if in agreement.

It’s not as if they’re saying earth-shattering things here. Baz is a part of the GSA. He’s been a regular at these meetings, if Keris’s “it’s not the same” is anything to go by. I can’t believe I didn’t know this.

Does that mean Baz is gay? It’s not that one _has_ to be gay to be in a GSA, but many members are part of the community, right? And it would explain a lot of things; how Baz never looked at a girl except Agatha, and how it never really went any further than friendship between them.

Crowley, here’s an entire part of Baz’s life that I had no idea about, and here I go assuming that he has _undying love_ for Agatha. (Then again, I also didn’t know that his mother was murdered. To be fair, it’s not like he knew either.)

I feel like a prick. I didn’t know Baz was capable of doing nice, human things like being an ally to the LGBT+ community or bonding with members of the LGBT+ community.

I can’t stop thinking about this for the duration of the meeting. Pen sits next to me, comfortable with these people, having been in the club since sixth year…

Did she _know_?

She must have. We all introduce ourselves in the beginning with our sexualities, if we’re comfortable, and Baz doesn’t seem like the type to be uncomfortable.

Of course, he could be. He never said anything about it. But I doubt he didn’t open up at least _once_ with this group of people.

When it’s time to leave, I catch up with Pen, who’s leaving at a bit of a fast pace.

“Did you know?” I ask.

“Did I know what?”

“That Baz was in the GSA.”

“Yes,” Pen admits. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Is Baz gay?”

“That’s not my thing to say,” Pen says.

I’m going to assume that’s a yes.

“And you let me go around thinking Baz and Agatha were a thing. Crowley, I feel so dumb, Pen.”

She smiles somewhat tiredly at me. “It’s okay, Simon. We all have our moments.”

vii.

After six weeks of Baz being gone in which I begin to assume he’s dead, he returns in a grand gesture, swinging the doors open with **Open sesame,** because he’s incapable of not being dramatic.

He looks like shit: that’s the first thing I notice. Baz’s skin is grayer than it usually is, his eyes look a little sunken, and he’s walking weirdly. I’d assumed that if Baz was alive he’d be plotting with the Families, but now I’m not so sure.

He just looks sick.

It unsettles me in the way that a lot of things have unsettled me this year, but with Baz back, it feels like I’ve released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Agatha and I both stand up, out of reflex more than anything, and Baz just scoffs.

He takes a seat with Dev and Niall, and I catch him saying, “So what’d I miss, boys?” before the dining hall chatter resumes and I sit back down.

“Honestly, Si, what’s the reason for being so _dramatic?_ ” Penny mutters. I hardly think that’s fair, since I’m not the one who slammed the doors open with **Open sesame.**

“I thought he was dead,” I say instead.

Pen rolls her eyes. At this rate, they might fall out of their sockets.

Later that night, after Baz has returned from feeding in the Catacombs, I ask him, “So where were you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and that’s the point of this conversation, isn’t it? I very much _would_ like to know.

“Yes, actually,” I respond. I can’t see him in the dark, but I know Baz is smirking evilly the way he does when he’s about to say something shitty.

“I was busy murdering some poor kids for a virgin sacrifice,” he says. “I used their blood for a satanic ritual that will kill you by proxy, and things should start to take effect in about two weeks. However, the performance of summoning Satan took a huge physical strain on me, so I had to spend six weeks away from Watford. Terrible, I know.”

“Jesus fuck,” I swear. “I just asked you a question.”

Now I’m actually kind of paranoid. I even took off my cross in Baz’s absence.

I rush to put it back on. I have no idea if it’ll help against any curses made against me with virginal sacrifices, but it can’t hurt.

This is really why I should stop asking Baz personal questions. He always responds in the worst ways.

It’s then that I remember about his mother.

viii.

Baz is at the next GSA meeting. He looks utterly thrown when I walk in with Penny, and sits between Pen and Keris, where the gap was at the first meeting. His brows are furrowed in something like confusion. I’d feel bad for him if he wasn’t a fucking prick.

We all gather in the circle and do the usual shit with our names, years, pronouns, sexualities and all that. Mine goes like “Simon, eighth year, he/him, straight, I can go off with my magic,” and it usually elicits a chuckle from the people with more morbid senses of humor.

However, I’m a bit interested in what Baz has to say. If he’s actually gay or not. (I know he is; I haven’t mentioned that I know because it would be kind of a dick move, but I’d like to hear him say it.)

“Baz,” he starts. “Eighth year. I…” he pauses, right before the pronoun bit, and looks worriedly in my direction. I’m more than a little confused by all of this, but I see Pen give him an encouraging nod next to me, and his face steels itself. “They/them pronouns,” he — _they_ — continue, and I realize.

I am an utterly.

Dumb.

Fucking.

Prick.

“I’m gay,” Baz is saying now, “and I can play the violin.”

(Well, I was right about him — _them_ , for fuck’s sake — being gay. Nevermind that I thought they had a thing for Agatha.)

I had no idea they were non-binary. And I’ve been going around calling Baz a boy, saying “ _He’s_ a git,” and all-around obsessively misgendering them. I don’t know much about being trans, or non-cisgender, but I know that misgendering someone is a Very Bad Thing and I’ve been doing it. For a while.

I feel like a dumb arse, a prick, and I’d very much like to crawl in a hole and die.

And Penny knew, I realize. She nodded at them. She _knew,_ and she knew being gay wasn’t the only reason they had to attend GSA, and she didn’t say anything. For Merlin’s sake, she imposed _a Baz quota,_ and I realize now it was probably for their sake so they didn’t hear me misgendering them.

I feel like such an arse.

And now that I know Baz isn’t a guy, it strikes me that even their _mother_ was mindful of their pronouns; she always said “Basilton” instead of _him_ and _my child_ instead of _my son._

Crowley, even their dead mother knew before me. I’m so fucking dumb. Now every single moment between us is running through my mind and I flash back to fifth year, right before Baz pushed me down the stairs, when I told them “ _You’re just a boy._ ”

That’s why they were so tetchy about it. I’d have pushed me down the stairs too.

Which is not to say that being non-binary excuses any of the shitty things they’ve done over the years. Baz is still a terrible person. They stole Philippa Stainton’s voice. They set a chimera on me to make me go off. They taunted me for crying, and always tried to say the worst things to get under my skin.

They’re still terrible. But maybe I might have unknowingly been just as terrible back to them.

ix.

Baz and I haven’t talked since the GSA meeting a few days ago. I walk in on them in the Mage’s office, clutching a picture of themself, younger and darker-skinned and bright-eyed, looking so utterly sad about it that I can’t take it anymore.

I have to tell them about their mum. How she visited me. How she told me about her killer.

And I need to apologize properly, I realize, for misgendering them for eight years. I don’t know if they’re looking for apologies. But I need to let Baz know I’m sorry.

So I lead them back to our room. Tell them about the Visiting.

The anguish on their face nearly breaks me. I know that, if nothing else, Baz cares about their mum.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” I add. “For… using the wrong pronouns.”

“You don’t have to say that,” they say. “I never told you.”

“Yeah, but I was an arse about it, and I owed you an apology.”

They smile thinly. It should be bigger. I want Baz to smile more.

“Fair enough,” they say.

“And I’ll help you with your mum,” I offer. “Not as a favor or anything. But she was your mum. And that’s important.”

Baz’s smile flattens. But they say, “But you can’t go back on it. In the morning. I don’t want you to pretend you never said it.”

“In that case, you have to not be plotting against me.”

Baz rolls their eyes. We agree to a truce.

We have to bond it with magic because we trust each other so little.

But we’ve agreed to some terms: no violence until the murder is solved.

I bring Penny in to help us because I’d be no help without her, and to be honest, I think it’s her Baz is really looking for.

The investigation is going somewhat dramatically. We’ve pored over too many copies of the _Record,_ and we’ve made many lists with nothing in them on the whiteboard, but it’s gotten us nowhere.

By Christmas, we’re not any closer to finding Nicodemus and we’ve learned nothing new about the vampire attack on the school, either. Baz offers to let me stay at their house for the winter holidays, but I’d feel weird doing it, and I’m pretty sure their family hates me anyway. Obviously, I can’t go to Agatha’s anymore because we’re not together, and Penny’s mom isn’t the biggest fan of me.

So Watford it is. I visit Ebb, the goatherd, deciding that whatever she’s got to tell me is probably more interesting than our room.

It turns out that it’s true. She tells me about her brother. Her brother named Nicodemus.

x.

Baz is wearing jeans. And fuck, they look really good in them.

So good I almost forget about Nicodemus. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything when they’re right there, standing in their tight jeans as their hair falls into their face?

I think it’s great that Baz doesn’t wear jeans at Watford. If they did, I’m not sure anyone could get any work done.

“Snow?” Baz is asking. Fuck, I totally tuned out of whatever they were saying.

“What?”

“Are you even listening to me?” they sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just… you’re — you’re wearing jeans.”

Baz furrows their brows. “And…?”

“You never wear jeans,” I point out somewhat defensively. “It’s just a shock, that’s all.”

“All you wear is your Watford uniform,” they say. I don’t reply because I’d like to walk out of this conversation with some dignity intact.

“I found Nicodemus,” I say instead, trying to ignore the increasingly gay thoughts beginning to worm their way into my head. This is so weird. I’m not even gay. Baz isn’t even a guy.

But Baz. In jeans. What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?

“You found Nicodemus?” Baz says incredulously, and I’m reminded of our conversation.

Now is not the time for a nonexistent sexuality crisis.

“Yeah,” I reply, focusing back onto Baz (did my thoughts ever really _not_ focus on him, though?). “You know Ebb, the goatherd?” Baz nods. “Well, she said that her brother’s name is Nicodemus. But he… well, I think I should probably come inside before I say more.”

“Fuck you and your suspense,” Baz growls, but steps aside to let me into their house. Crowley. I haven’t even stepped foot inside Baz’s house and I’m already having thoughts I should not be having.

They turn around and… well, fuck.

Resolutely _not_ looking at Baz’s arse, I practically burn holes into their hair instead as I follow them into their house and up the staircase.

Side note: this house is so big. I’m sure there are Forbidden rooms that hold terrible secrets. This house is out of a countryside romance with a jaded housekeeper and a bright visitor or some _Jane Eyre_ shit. (I’ve read the book. Studying magic doesn’t mean _not_ studying literature.)

Baz leads me up to their room. It’s…

Something.

It’s so impersonal. You’d think that having one’s own room in their own house would be enough to make someone leave some personal effects around their room, but apparently not Baz. This room is so _empty._ Not even a single poster.

There are gargoyles on the bed. On the bed. Gargoyles.

I _knew_ this house was straight out of a period drama.

“Well then,” Baz says. “Nicodemus.”

“Is a vampire,” I answer. “He voluntarily decided he wanted to get turnt. Turned, I mean. So he was stricken from our records.”

“Why the fuck would he do that?” Baz asks, looking a little bit horrified. I guess, to them, it would be. Being a vampire seems like a curse to them, I think. But they’ve never had human blood — or at least not that I know of — and aside from the whole _have to drink blood_ thing, I think being a vampire is pretty cool.

“I dunno. Physical perks, I guess.”

Baz scoffs. “Having to drink blood sounds like quite the _physical perk._ ”

“Well, don’t vampires not get sick?”

“I don’t know.” Baz sneers. “Why don’t you go ask one?”

I sigh. “You’re being difficult.”

“Oh, so now I’m difficult.”

Baz is acting like a little child about this. I think it’s because they were five when they got turnt. Turned, I mean.

“Well,” I say, trying to sound calm and Sage Hipster Indian Guru Guy — like… Baba Ramdev? Is that his name? I saw Penny’s mom watching him on TV once — “do you think your family could know?”

“And I’m just supposed to go ask them about the only vampire who voluntarily got Turned?”

“Do you know when he went to Watford, then? That could help,” I suggest. Baz’s eyes light up, and I sense that they’ve got an idea.

“Fiona has some old yearbooks. If he’s mentioned at all in this house, he’ll be there.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of their bitch aunt, but this is our only lead. So I let Baz drag me to another room full of yearbooks. We track down the name _Nicodemus Petty_ and note that he was in the same year as Fiona and actually, she has quite a few pictures with him.

Baz manages to pry a location out of her: Covent Garden.

xi.

Baz is so cool and collected in the bar that I’m not prepared for their practical breakdown when they get inside the car. Tears are streaming freely down their face and I have to give them my magic so they can keep casting “ **_Make way for the king_ **” on the roads.

(That’s another thing we can do: share our magic. With all the vampire shit and craziness with jeans, the whole thing had almost slipped my mind.)

We’re speeding back to their house in Hampshire, and I pull the plug on the magic-sharing once we’re in the countryside and don’t need to spell cars away, but I don’t take my hand off theirs because, to be honest, I don’t want to let go of Baz.  

It hits me then.

I don’t want to let go of Baz. I don’t want Baz to get hurt.

I want Baz. I want Baz to smile at me. I want Baz to touch me and want it. I want Baz to kiss me.

I want to kiss Baz.

That’s terrifying. So I keep holding their hand and try not to think about it.

xii.

If I thought Baz was having a breakdown before, that was nothing compared to this.

There’s fire curling up around their arm, and it’s dangerously close to their skin. Vampires are flammable. Like flash paper.

“Baz,” I start, but they cut me off.

“Just fuck off, Snow,” they say, voice sounding angry, broken, and tired all at the same time. I don’t know what could have spurred this on. Not getting anything out of Nicodemus was just a minor setback.

“We can still find something,” I try to say. “There’s always another way.”

“You don’t understand,” Baz says.

“Then make me understand,” I challenge. “This isn’t what your mother would have wanted for you. Do you think she’d want you to give up?”

“This is _exactly_ what she would have wanted!” Baz screams. “Fuck, you remember what we saw in the _Record?_ She killed herself. She got bit and she killed herself. She _hated_ vampires. She’d hate me. She’d hate me…” their voice peters out, and in that moment, I feel so sorry for them. To think you’re an abomination, to think your family hates you…

I think that might be worse than having no family at all.

“She wouldn’t,” I say, more sure of that answer than anything else. I know she loved Baz. Hell, she kissed my forehead and told me to give it to them. You don’t do that for a child you hate. “She Visited me, you know, kept calling for her child. You. She said she never would have left you.”

Baz’s eyes widen, but they don’t put out the flame in their hand. I want them to stop it, stop thinking horrible things about themself.

I don’t want Baz to get hurt.

“You’re not a monster,” I continue. “You’re a prick and an arse and a whole bunch of other things, but you’re not a fucking monster.”

Baz just scoffs. “This is —”

“No, I’m not finished. You don’t kill people. You’re a wanker to them, sure, but you don’t want to hurt anyone, not really. I can see that. I was wrong about you. You’re not a villain.”

“Didn’t I tell you once, Snow,” Baz says, “that you knew nothing?”

“I know plenty about you,” I reply, moving forward. “I spent a whole year stalking you.”

Baz is not a monster. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

“You don’t know a lot of things,” Baz insists. But I shake my head.

“I know I’ve never turned my back on you, and I’m not going to start now,” I say. “You’re not a monster, Baz. I know that now.”

xiii.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I’m thinking.

But when Baz says, “Simon…,” I have to do something. So I kiss them.

I’ve never kissed a person who isn’t a girl before. I’ve never kissed _Baz_ before. I don’t know if this is good; Baz isn’t responsive to it, frozen against my lips.

I pull back, feeling like an idiot. Here I go, ruining things between us: we had friendship, a truce, and I fucking kissed them.

Then I see fire enter Baz’s eyes.

And _they_ kiss _me._

xiv.

The past few hours have been a whirlwind of emotions, the most prominent of which is probably lust.

Baz and I have been snogging on-and-off for… it must be a few hours now. I’m trying not to think about what this means for my sexuality. I’m definitely not exclusively gay: I loved Agatha once, and Baz isn’t a boy either, so I think I am… somewhere in the middle of bisexual and pansexual. For now, my sexuality seems to be “snogging Baz.”

“Okay,” Baz says, breaking away from me, “we need to talk. About… all of this.”

“We do,” I agree.

“What — what are we then? Are we just… happy partners now? Or are we just friends who occasionally snog each other?”

“Full disclosure,” I say, “I’m a terrible boyfriend.” Baz groans. “No, wait, just hear me out. I was terrible to Agatha. I didn’t listen to her at all. And, in retrospect, I cared more about what was expected out of us than what I actually wanted for us. So, yeah, I’m a terrible bloody boyfriend. But I want that with you.” I take their hand. “I want to be your terrible boyfriend. So, Baz Pitch, will you be my terrible… significant other?”

“You’re such a mess,” they complain as they lean in to kiss me.

“I am. But you like it.”

“Yes, I do. Because we match.”

xv.

If, a year ago, you asked me where I thought I’d be today, I’d have said “dead” or “married.” I didn’t expect to be at Gay Spring Formal. I didn’t expect to be Baz’s boyfriend.

I didn’t expect to have no magic, and I didn’t expect Baz to stay with me through it all. I also didn’t expect the dragon wings and tail. But here I am.

The Leavers’ Ball has already happened and I already went with them for that, too, in which we had a whole conversation about the prophecy and shit. But now it’s time for Gay Spring Formal, in which I plan to do nothing depressing. I just want to laugh and dance and kiss Baz.

And maybe have a scone or two. They have them on the refreshment tables. I can’t help myself. I’m not a student at Watford anymore — it’s hard to study magic when you have none of it — so I haven’t been able to have the sour cherry scones. I miss them.

I missed Baz, too. A year ago I never thought I’d be admitting that openly, but here I am.

“You didn’t have to come,” Baz tells me. I huff.

“What, like I was going to miss out on ‘Spring Formal, but make it gay?’”

Baz smirks. “You know, it was my idea.”

There had always been that unnamed creator of this whole idea for an alternate Spring Formal and Pride Week right before it.

“So you were the mysterious creator who didn’t want to be outed?”

Baz hums in response. “I like gay things, you see.”

“We all know.”

“You didn’t.”

“That was seventh year.”

Baz pulls me in closer, pressing a kiss to my temple, the way their mother did. “I’m glad you found out.”

And in that moment, I forget about everything: the Humdrum, the Mage, Baz’s mother, the Families, and all the shit that’s plagued us since we started Watford. In here, there are no expectations, there’s no pressure to be someone you aren’t.

I’m glad we have that. We didn’t. A year ago, I didn’t think I would.

“I’m glad too,” I say, and lean in to kiss Baz. “I’m kind of a gay thing too, you know.”

A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever be admitting that. But here I am.

The words flow out of my mouth like water.


End file.
